“These two challenges are gonna be tough.” He opened the big, secret envelope and scanned its contents.

I saw the enigmatic smile on Chef Art’s face and knew he had a hand in creating the challenges.

“The stakes are going up. Tomorrow, each team will have to sell two hundred dollars in product. Remember this has to be your main menu item. You’ll have as long as you need. There is no time limit, but again, the first person to reach two hundred dollars wins.”

That sounded easy enough. I should’ve known there was more to come.

“Now the fun part of this challenge.” Patrick demonstrated how “fun” it was by laughing almost hysterically. “Everyone on the teams has to dress in bikinis, just like our girls up here. Ladies, take a bow.”

The two young women bowed gracefully.

“One of our sponsors, By the Beach—featuring beach toys, towels, swimsuits, and other fun items—now found at more than one hundred locations across the Southeast, has donated bikinis for our teams in every shape, size, color, and style. In other words, we’ve got you covered! No excuses.”

Daryl Barbee stood up at his table and tossed down his big hat. “I am not wearing a bikini tomorrow. This is a stupid challenge.”

Everyone watched him storm out of the room. The cameras followed him, loving the controversy. His wife, Sarah, blushed and shrugged but didn’t comment on her husband’s temper tantrum. One of the assistants followed Daryl out of the dining room, probably for a personal interview.

Chef Art was so busy chuckling to himself that I wanted to hit him. No doubt he thought Delia wearing a bikini as she sold biscuit bowls in downtown Birmingham was a winning idea. Or he just wanted to see her in a bikini. Who knows?

“Good one!” Ollie held up his thumb.

“What’s good about it?” Uncle Saul asked. “Have you ever seen a man wearing a bikini? What do you think we’re going to look like tomorrow?”

“Who cares?” Ollie asked. “Nobody in any of the other food trucks is hot like Delia.”

“There’s Bobbie’s daughter,” I reminded him. “She couldn’t skate, but I bet she’ll look good in a bikini.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right.” He frowned a moment and then lightened up. “Maybe that’s where we’ll use our tag.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chef Art commended him. “Wait. Patrick has more to say.”

Now that the interruption was over, Patrick continued. “Did I mention we’re gonna have a little bikini beauty pageant? Everyone will get a turn on the stage. The winner of our pageant will get a one-week, all-expenses-paid cruise to the Caribbean for their team. This is from another sponsor, All Star Cruise Lines, hailing from the port of Mobile, Alabama.”

That was popular enough, even though it meant that all team members would have to participate. Ollie and Delia didn’t care. Uncle Saul was a little upset, but I knew he’d come around. I’d be okay if they had the right bikini for me.

They did a spin on the board and lit everything up to show us again what our stats were. Nothing had changed. It was a little anticlimactic. The dinner began to break up, vendors heading back to their rooms.

“I’m going to get something real to eat! This was tasteless fare.” Chef Art got to his feet. “I’m buying. Who’s with me? I’m sure Birmingham has something better to offer.”

“I’m in,” Uncle Saul said. “I had some basil and tomato alligator stew here in Birmingham once. Best I ever had.”

I couldn’t believe it. “That would be like me eating a cat. What about Alabaster? How is she going to feel about you eating one of her kind?”

He shrugged. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

The doors to the room burst open as everyone was headed in that general direction. Dante Eldridge, from the ill-fated Stick It Here food truck, ran in.

“Wait! Stop! I found my food truck. I want another shot.” He was shouting and waving his big, muscled arms.

Patrick started to speak but was pulled aside by one of the producers. After a short conversation, he picked up his microphone. “It looks as though Stick It Here will be joining us tomorrow on the street.”

“How does that work?” Bobbie Shields asked. “Why does he get to come back?”

One of the men behind the scenes, who always seemed to have the last word, came forward and took the microphone from Patrick. “Dante wasn’t kicked out of the race because he failed a challenge. He was a victim who has managed to get his food truck back. I think that requires us to allow him back into the race. Thank you.”

Bobbie, about five-foot-five, maybe early fifties, walked up close to Dante, who was a big man, tall and muscular, probably in his thirties. “Well, you won’t look too good in a bikini now, will you? I’m not worried. Good night!”

“Bikini?” Dante glanced around the room for an explanation.

“Come up here,” Patrick said. “I’ll get you up to speed.”

The rest of us left and were guided to another big room by one of the bikini-clad girls. It seemed fitting when she opened the door and the room was filled with bikinis. There had to be every color known to man in that room. There were micro-bikinis, thongs, halter tops, string tops. I’d never seen so many bathing suits in one place.

Of course, the cameramen were there watching and recording the whole thing. Some people made use of the small closet to try their bikinis on. Others just grabbed what they knew was their size and left.

I had an idea as soon as I saw the bikinis. I called my team together, and the closest cameraman zoomed in on us.

“Everyone grab a red bikini,” I said. “I don’t care what kind it is. Our tag is Do it in the red. All of us should wear red.”

Ollie did that frown that went from the tattoo on his head to his chin. “How do we know that’s what we’re supposed to do, Zoe? Maybe we’re supposed to shoot someone in the face with ketchup or spray-paint their food red as they’re trying to sell it.”

“I’m sure it’s the bikini colors. See? Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. It’s the bikinis. We’re going to get something for figuring it out.” Uncle Saul picked up a red bikini with a halter top and twirled it around on his finger. “I’ve admired these on many shapely women over the years. I’ve never thought about wearing one myself.”

“Whatever.” Ollie shook his head. “Let’s find the most revealing bikini we can for Delia. I’ll start over here.”

“You look for your own, big guy,” she told him. “I know what works for me. I don’t need your help.”

After that was over, we were boring to the cameraman, who moved to where Bobbie’s daughter was trying on blue string bikinis. Bobbie either didn’t get the tag idea or was going to ignore it. She was looking at yellow bikinis.

With our plan in motion, I set about finding a red bikini for me.

The thing about bikinis is that they only look good on you if you have a perfect body. By perfect, I mean tall, thin, and shapely. I was only privileged to be in that last category. I got the shapely part from my mother, but tall and thin wasn’t me. I didn’t look bad in a nice one-piece. Bikinis scared me.

I definitely didn’t want a string bikini. Not that any of the other types hid anything. Some of them were barely patches held together by almost invisible string. I quietly picked out a red halter-neck top with a modest bottom.

Ollie and Uncle Saul were having a hard time—not surprising. We found bikinis that would fit both of them. No doubt they wouldn’t be particularly flattering, but that’s not what the producers had in mind.

It was too bad Chef Art didn’t have to wear a red bikini, too. He probably would’ve dropped that brilliant idea if that was the case.

“I’m not shaving my legs—or any other part of my body except my head—for this race,” Ollie told me.

“I don’t think anyone expects you to,” I assured him.